


As Usual

by Polly_Lynn



Series: Unlikely pr0n inspired by Wagner [1]
Category: Castle
Genre: Dry Humping, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Male-Female Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-08
Updated: 2014-06-08
Packaged: 2018-02-03 21:52:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1757895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polly_Lynn/pseuds/Polly_Lynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Usually he doesn't have to wonder how long he'll be able to smell her on his shirt or how the hell to live with the memory of her breath spilling out over him and the tiny, contented noise that woke him."</p>
            </blockquote>





	As Usual

**Author's Note:**

> An AU insert for Cuffed (4 x 10). References to Rise (4 x 01) and Knockdown (3 x 13).

  


"What?" He keeps his tone level. It's just a question. He's not snapping at her. He is very pointedly not snapping at her. Snapping is not going to help.

She glares anyway. She wastes half a second glaring, and that's it before she turns away without a word. She's moving again. Roaming the perimeter of the dingy room for the thousandth time. Which means _he's_ roaming the perimeter of the dingy room for the thousandth time, because, hello? Cuffed.

And apparently he's not roaming fast enough. That's the subtle message underneath the glare. Underneath a thousand impatient tugs at his wrist. Because roaming is important. Because if they roam the proper, mystical number of times, apparently a handcuff key is going to drop from the ceiling. Or maybe they'll stumble across a magic wardrobe with a way out of here just past all the coats, and won't _he_ feel silly for his pokey roaming then?

He stifles a sigh. Almost stifles it, judging from the way her spine stiffens. She _doesn't_ turn this time. She _doesn't_ glare. She keeps roaming, though. She isn't even bothering to glare.

The glare was actually progress. Before the glare, she hadn't even looked at him in . . . well, he actually has no idea how long. Because they're cuffed together in a dingy room with no better way of gauging the time than her rumbling stomach. But it had been a while between glares.

It's been longer still since she's said anything. She pretty much stopped talking a while back. Somewhere in between all the awkward grunting and shoving at the freezer and the two of them toppling together on to the filthy mattress, she'd trailed off in to monosyllables and then nothing.

He's trying to respect that. He's trying to shut up, and he's trying not to snap at her, because this is her coping mechanism. Silence and roaming and the occasional glare. He gets it. Even if she seems to have no appreciation for the fact that _his_ coping mechanism is sarcasm and mindless chatter. Even if she seems to care not at all that the cuffs are _way_ tighter on him than her, and it hurts every time she changes direction with no heads up at all. No warning but a brutal yank. But that's how she copes. He gets it.

He's trying to stay out of her way. To read her body language and work with her. He's _really_ trying. But it's hour God-knows-what of this saga, and it's not getting any easier.

None of it's getting any easier, but he's trying. Not that she seems to appreciate it. No, she just keeps jerking him around.

_Literally, for once._

The thought leaves a sour taste in his mouth. He feels guilty for it immediately.

Because it's not fair, right? She's jerking him around literally because this is how she copes and they have to do something.

And she's not jerking him around . . . _not_ literally on purpose. _Metaphorically._ She's not deliberately jerking him around metaphorically. She's just not ready.

_Not ready._

He pictures her in sunlight, her head tipped away from him and the words coming slowly. Carefully like she's saying as much as she can and it's not easy for her. He pictures the two of them side-by-side and the swing's silver chain bisecting her profile. The book flat across her lap. His book. Theirs.

She's not ready, but there's a silent _Yet_ between them. Ever since that day in sunlight. He believes that, even when it's not easy. And he can wait, right?

He can wait. Usually.

Except _usually_ he's not fuzzy and a little out of it from whatever they've been drugged with. _Usually_ he doesn't have to worry about tingles still chasing up and out over his skin where she rested her head against his shoulder. _Usually_ he doesn't have to wonder how long he'll be able to smell her on his shirt or how the hell to live with the memory of her breath spilling out over him and the tiny, contented noise that woke him.

 _Usually_ he can wait.

 _Usually_ is pretty much over.

"Castle!" She circles around to face him.

"Hmmm?"

He blinks down at her. _Down,_ he thinks, and usually slips a little further away. Because she's still in her stocking feet and there's something sweet and intimate about it. Because his palms flare with sudden heat at the memory of one hand steadying her waist and the other gliding down her body to pull her boot free. Because his fingertips are alive with the sensation of warm, smooth skin under them. Because he can still hear the sound of her breath catching feel the arch of her spine when his fingertips made a bold sweep over the flare of her hip.

This isn't usually.

"This way," she says shortly. She whirls away again.

He follows. He shakes his head to clear it and matches her long, purposeful stride, because this is how she copes. Because they need to do _something_ to get out of here, and she's not _deliberately_ jerking him around. She's just not ready yet, and he can wait. Usually he can wait.

She stops. He all but runs into her. He stops just barely short of her body. Just short of her back pressed to his front—her hips fitting against his all too well—and they've already been there once today. He stops just short and can't find any air.

"Sorry," he mutters and there's too much in the single word. _Too much_. "Sorry," he says again, but she's not listening.

She cocks her head up at the window. Her hair tumbles back off her shoulders. He breathes in the scent of her. He closes his eyes against it. Reminds himself that he can wait. He can _wait._

It's just that waiting is easier from a distance. And there's no distance now. Literally. There's no distance at all.

Even now when she's on the move again. When she jerks her chin back down and rejects whatever she was thinking about the window. Even when her arm is stretched out as far behind her as it will go and she's tugging at him, there's no distance at all. They're cuffed. Together. And she's right there. Constantly _right there_ for who knows how long.

And it's not easy. Waiting isn't easy at all when her skin brushes his every second. When he can feel the delicate jut of her wrist and the pulse just beneath. Slow and steady, then jumping when she thinks she sees something. When she has a new idea and she clutches his wrist for just an instant, because this is time number one thousand and one and roaming might get them somewhere. It's not easy when he wants to lace his fingers through hers and bring that thrumming proof of life to his lips.

This isn't usually, and it stopped being easy a long time back.

She pauses, then lurches forward again. It catches him off guard and the bite of the cuffs into his wrist is particularly vicious, and he doesn't quite manage to stifle a grunt.

 _"Castle!"_ She turns on him. She's half in shadow and her eyes are blazing. She's furious. "Why can't you keep up?"

She pulls hard at the cuffs. Literally. Deliberately. Suddenly he's furious, too.

"Why can't you just stop?"

"Stop _what?"_

She leans toward him, practically hissing in his face. He can feel the heat coming off her in waves and he's done. He's just _done_ with this dingy room and the cuffs and the fact that they're probably going to die here.

"Stop being so . . ." He cuts off on a frustrated noise. He doesn't know. He doesn't even know. He jerks his hands back. Forgets about the cuffs as he tries to put some distance between them.

She stumbles into him. Of course she does. They're _cuffed_ and now there's no distance between her body and his. He takes her weight and stumbles back himself. He tries to right them—to put any distance at all between them—but the mattress is there. The stupid, filthy mattress and they're falling.

He hits hard on his back and the wind goes out of him. She's sprawled on top of him, their joined hands stretched over his head. She's sprawled on top of him and her hair is falling around their faces and it goes from _not easy_ to _actively bad_ in a heartbeat. So very, _very_ bad.

"Beckett. I'm sorry." He plants his free fist as the breath rushes painfully back into him.

He tries to struggle to a sitting position, but her body is limp and heavy over his.

She's not moving. She's not _moving._

"Beckett, are you . . ." He shifts his legs, trying to get purchase to flatten his feet.

She lets out a strangled cry. Her head snaps back, throwing her face completely into shadow.

"Castle . . . don't." It's a grim rasp. Pained and hardly even a whisper. It scares him. It scares the hell out of him.

"Beckett." He winds his free arm around her waist. He holds her still against him as he works his torso upright. "Kate!"

The motion tears another noise from her. Something low and wild and he's panicking. She's hurt. She must be hurt. He twists his left wrist and laces their fingers together. He lifts her hand as gently as he can and wraps his arm behind her neck.

"Castle, please." Her voice is ragged. "Don't . . ."

"Kate, what?" He can't see her face. He lets go her fingers to sweep back her hair, but she's all in shadow. "Don't _what?"_

He rocks them to the side. He keeps her body as still as he can, but he wants to get her into the light. He does. He manages to haul the two of them a foot nearer the window.

"Kate, talk to me."

He sinks his left hand into her hair and coaxes her head back. The light falls across her face. Just a dim slash, but enough. Her lips are parted and her breath comes in quick, shallow pants. Her eyes are huge, even beneath the heavy sweep of lashes.

She's not hurt.

"Castle, don't _move,"_ she grits out finally.

Her chin drops to her chest. She's trying to breathe, but a shiver runs all through her. _All_ through her. She's straddling his hips. She's in his _lap_ and he feels it.

She's not hurt.

"Kate."

His mouth drops to her hair. To the warm pink flush of her cheekbone and his voice sounds far away. Low and strained and like it belongs somewhere else. To someone else.

"Kate."

He groans against her neck as she shivers again. It runs from her body to his and back again, and he really means to ask. He means to make sure this is ok. _This._ Because there is a _this._

There is a serious, urgent _this_ and he really means to ask, but it's too late by then. The fingers of her right hand are knotted in his collar and his are creeping under the hem of her sweater. Claiming the flare of her hip again and striking out for undiscovered territory. The curve of her ribs and the stepping stone path of her spine. Every inch of her he can find.

He means to ask, but she's rolling against him and her teeth catch the skin behind his ear and he thinks maybe it's ok with her. He thinks maybe it's very ok that he's not _not_ moving.

He spreads his palm wide and low over her back. His fingers splay beneath the waist of her jeans and the ridge of elastic draws a groan from him. He holds her and moves with her. Pours words into her ear. Nonsense and her own name. He coaxes her on and on until he's lost in the feel of her and the sounds winding around the two of them.

He bows his head against her shoulder and turns his mouth to her neck. He presses his lips hard against her skin. Presses them hard against bone and muscle and tendon and he doesn't say the words. _I love you. I love you, Kate._

Her head drops back. Away from him. He sweeps his free arm up to curve with the arch of her spine as she rises up. As she bends back and back. Her mouth falls open and she surges against him. He watches, fascinated, as the light falls over her. As it seeps into her and she shivers one last time.

Her eyes open and close, unseeing at first, and he's suddenly afraid. She just . . . and _he_ . . .

He's waiting. He was supposed to be waiting, because she's not ready and this next moment could go very, _very_ badly.

Her eyes open and close. They open again and find his. She seeks him out. Peers into his face, and he realizes she can't see him. That he's in shadow. She tugs at the cuffs. Pulls his left arm all the way around her shoulders and tugs him forward. She slides her fingers into his hair and brings his face into the light.

He should say something. He really should say something but his insides are still twisting. They're still climbing high and falling away, and _Can I make you come again?_ is all he can think of. It's probably the wrong thing. Even if he says please. _Especially_ if he says please, it's probably the wrong thing.

But she drops her forehead against his and her eyes close again and he's off the hook.

Kind off the hook.

She settles against him. Relaxes on a sigh and it's his new favorite sound in the history of the world right up until the moment her hips shift. He's not expecting it. She's in his lap on a filthy mattress and he's not expecting it _at all._

He squeaks. It's the kindest word for it. For the breathless strangled thing that he meant to be her name. That he meant to be a plea of his own. _Don't move_.

"Castle," her eyes fly wide and her cheeks go pink. "You . . . I . . ."

They stare at each other. For two long, torturous breaths, they stare and then they're laughing. Weak and shaky and desperate, but they're laughing. She curls her right hand behind his neck and mumbles an apology against his shoulder.

"No," he laughs. "I'm . . . Kate, _no_. This isn't . . . there's _nothing_ . . ." He works his right hand between them and tips her chin up to look at her. "There is _nothing_ to apologize for."

The pink of her cheeks deepens. "But you're . . ."

She makes a vague gesture between their bodies and it's . . . dirty. It's _so_ dirty that they're laughing all over again. They fall against each other and take a long time to go quiet again.

"Kate, we should . . ."

". . . Castle, I . . ."

She laughs again. A soft sound that mingles with his own. He waits. Lives dangerously a moment longer.

"You first," he says quietly in her ear.

She pulls back. It's sudden and he's worried. For half a second, he's worried. She's staring at him. Searching his face intently and he's afraid of all the things she might see.

She kisses him then. A hard, clumsy thing that knocks their foreheads together, but she kisses him and he stills.

It's the first time. Kind of the first time. He chases stray thoughts about taking her out. About dirty alleys and dim light and the appalling fact that this is really the first time.

He has her in his lap. He's had her shaking against him and felt the hum of her body and hasn't even _kissed_ her. He feels the blood rush to his face. He feels words and explanations climbing into his mouth, but she kisses him again and they get it right this time. Exactly right, and he thinks it's ok. That this is backwards and strange and not easy, but it's ok.

She kisses him one more time. A sweet promise and he loves the shy pink of her cheeks. He loves her. She kisses him one more time and whispers in his ear. "I owe you." She gives him a sly smile. "I owe you, Castle."

And then she's going. She's unwinding their limbs and standing tall. Tugging at the cuffs, and he moves with her. They stand with the light falling across them both and she smiles.

"I owe you," she says again. Determined this time. "Now let's get out of here."

  



End file.
